Nothing. Not his ignominious capture at Red Wing Town. Not the deaths of his children. Not hanging, ready to die in the square. Not even his fear that he might break under torture. Nothing had ever unmanned and humiliated Fire Cat like watching the Natchez Little Sun make the final point.
Not just the final point.
The final five points!
Fire Cat had said nothing as he gritted his teeth, stripped off his breechcloth and sandals, and laid them on the ground before the Natchez.
He avoided the delighted eyes of the Itza and wished he could stuff his ears with mud to shut out their clicking and broken language as they laughed and joked.
Stunned and shamed, he walked on unsteady feet to pick up the beautiful black stone and lance. He would have lost them, had he bet. Thank Piasa’s foul breath that they hadn’t been his to lose.
Heart hammering, he made himself walk. The steps were instinctive, separate from any conscious thought. One foot ahead of the other. Back straight. Just walk.
His skin might have been on fire with shame.
I failed.
Better to die.
He could take one of the flint knives, or perhaps use the keen copper edge on Night Shadow Star’s war club, and slice deeply into a wrist.
I will not have to look her in the eyes. Will not have to explain that I failed her. Failed my ancestors.
His vision blurred. What would Uncle say?
Thank the blessed Spirits that the man was dead.
From the time Fire Cat had been a child and Uncle had fitted that very first clay chunkey stone into his pudgy little hand, Uncle had schooled him on the game.
“It’s a matter of soul and feeling,” Uncle had said. “You must be smooth. Live the cast the moment before you release the lance. See the arc as it follows the stone.”
And it had all deserted him.
Uncle would have wept.
On leaden feet, he stumbled toward Night Shadow Star’s palace. People on the beaten path stopped and stared as he passed, his naked body a symbol of utter defeat. Vaguely he was aware of the dirt farmers, some packing loaded baskets, as they gawked and pointed. One of Night Shadow Star’s cousins gaped openly, her servant giggling.
Two Four Winds warriors smirked and elbowed each other, finally having their moment as the once-arrogant Fire Cat avoided their eyes.
But the worst was the gloating Natchez and his pus-licking Itza. They followed along behind, waving Fire Cat’s breechcloth like a flag. They kept calling out in their incomprehensible language, as if invoking their rogue gods.
Fire Cat placed his foot on Night Shadow Star’s lowest stair, head down. He couldn’t meet the guarding warrior’s curious gaze. Couldn’t stand it.
Taking the first step, his leg almost gave out, his will to climb as numb as his souls.
Power has deserted me. There is nothing left.
But he willed himself, step by step, as if there were nothing left but that last climb to the palace. All he had to do was reach the head of the stairs.
At the top, he hurried, almost in a run as he passed the Piasa and Horned Serpent guardian posts. He barely felt the matting covering the veranda. Then he was inside, blessedly out of sight.
Clay String called something, amazement in his voice.
In one of the dark corners, Fire Cat settled on the floor. He laid the black stone and polished lance to the side.
Only then did the insane laughter burst from his lips. He laughed, and laughed, and continued laughing until his ribs ached, and the world shuddered into silence.